


Will you be strong enough (to catch me when I fall for you)?

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Hands, Romance, Strength
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She can't stop looking at his hands, and remembering how he'd grasped her wrist and stopped her – stopped her – drawing her gun; and that one subsequent instant of hesitation turning to decision and the sharp grip and flex as his mouth had come down on hers."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hold my hands

She can’t stop looking at his hand as the medic wraps it.  She sees his hands almost every day, but not like this: bruised and cut and _tough_ in a crudely physical way she’d never have expected her metrosexual writer to be.  He hides _that_ well.  He hides other things well, too.  Such as the strength in his arms and the force in his lips and the power and the passion and the pride when he’d kissed her, only an hour or two ago.

She can’t stop looking at his hands, and remembering how he’d grasped her wrist and stopped her – _stopped_ her – drawing her gun; and that one subsequent instant of hesitation turning to decision and the sharp grip and flex as his mouth had come down on hers.  She remembers how his hands had felt as they pulled her in and held her tight against a hard body; how his hands had felt as they knotted in her hair and kept her in place.  She remembers how she had felt bereft as he stopped and let go and then her hands had pulled him down on to her lip; how his hands had felt, returning to her.

Now she can’t stop looking at his hands: large and long-fingered; fast and dextrous on his phone; always in motion: touching and fidgeting.  His hands are never still.

Except now.  Perforce, his hand is still as the medic laves it with embrocations, wraps it in sterile gauze and then white crepe bandaging; covering the cuts and bruises where he’d laid into Lockwood and beaten the shit out of him.  Those same hands that move so delicately over his phone; those same hands that fly across his keyboard; those same hands that caught her in a blend of strength and passion and care.  That same bloodied, bandaged hand; and all the blood and bruising and bandaging incurred in her defence.

He would have killed Lockwood, in her defence.  As much as her own, unbloodied hands would have pulled the trigger, in his.

She takes his hands in hers, unable to reach round properly, over the bulky bandaging.

“Hey there, Chuck Norris. How's the hand?”

“Ah, excruciating.”

“Hmmmm.” But at least only one hand hurting.  Small mercy.

“How's Ryan, and Esposito?”

“Mmmm… mild hyperthermia, wounded pride. Guess which one will heal first. Thank you, for having my back in there.”

“Always.”

She’s not saying anything of what she wants to say.  But she can’t stop looking at his hands, holding them, slipping her thumb over the rough crepe of the bandages.  Adrenaline is starting to wear off: she can feel her own crash coming but she can’t stop it: it sounds as if his has already begun.  But she can’t let go of his hands, can’t stop looking at them.

“Kate?”

The interruption is stunningly, appallingly unwelcome and ill-timed.  His hands jerk in hers, pull back and away – _retreat_ , as if there’s something improper in his hands being in hers.  Nothing has felt more right, more proper, in eight months.

She steps out of the ambulance, sensing, not seeing, the slump behind her, the soft exhalation of concealed unhappiness.  She doesn’t have to look to know that his hands are fallen into his lap, still and unmoving and for one in its bandages as pale as the dead.  Those hands that shot the gun away and saved her life and punched their would-be killer bloody and unconscious, now still and pale.

 _His_ hands, under which she felt more alive than in years, under which Lockwood might most readily have died.  _His_ hands, which she might now be holding were she not here, another set of hands reaching out to her.  Surgeon’s hands, long-fingered and precise, slim.

The wrong hands.

She steps away from the ambulance, the curious bystanders and medics, still fussing and fretting over Ryan and Esposito with Lanie, who should not be here at all, dictating to all of them.  There are sharp shards of terror in Lanie’s voice, too, if she listens.

There are no shards of terror in Josh’s voice.  Mild, affectionate irritation, perhaps.

“Kate, how are you in an ambulance _again_?  What happened this time?  Are you okay?”  his hands – the _wrong_ hands – still stretching towards her, offering up comfort, consolation – but no more.  They both know that there is no more, on either side.  These hands have roamed her body, and never once felt, or made her feel, as had the hands she’s left behind her in the ambulance.

“Not me,” she says: only half a lie: she hurts, but it’s not visible now and it could have been so very much worse, except for the gun in those hands some yards away.  “Castle.”

“Ah,” Josh says quietly, “your ever-present shadow.”

She searches for an answer to that, but no good answers come to mind.

“Come here, Kate.  You’ve had a rough day.”  But as his hands touch her waist she backs away.

“No, Josh.  I can’t.  This… isn’t right any more.”  His face blanks into surgeon mode; his hands drop away to his sides.

“I knew,” he says calmly, “it was never the real deal.”  His hands hang still, almost peaceful.  “I’d hoped… but I knew we’d never make it.”  He steps back.  “Be safe, Kate.  Be happy.”

“You too,” she murmurs to his departing form, and watches him leave.  For all his calm words and demeanour, his hands are clenched at his side.  She’s only glad he made it civilised, easy.  Much like their part-time relationship, born in rebound misery on his part and rejection-fuelled unhappiness on hers.

Gina had had her hands on Castle when they left, last summer, but that’s all over, too: overheard endings in a precinct conference room.

She returns to the ambulance, pain crashing into her as the mask of adrenaline dissolves, wincing at each stride but concealing it as she comes into view.  The medic is still lecturing Castle on taking care of his hand.

It’s not her hands that hurt, nor yet her heart.  Not for any part of this evening’s work: no pain there, just the knowledge of a step she had to take.  She won’t cheat, not herself, nor Josh, nor Castle.  It’s been clear for hours that this evening’s work was more than a ruse, and that being known, she couldn’t continue deceiving herself, or Josh.  No hurt for her heart, in leaving Josh.

She looks into the body of the vehicle as the medic finally finishes his barrage of instructions.

“Ready to go, Castle?”  His hands tense, from the angle and rigidity of his fingers, but she extends hers to him all the same.  “C’mon.  Time to go home.”  Reaching out to reach his hands, the _right_ hands, and one of those same hands all bandaged and immobile as she flexes and bends her fingertips to reach and meld with his.  His hand, injured and now imprisoned on her account.  She wants to cry, that he should suffer to defend her when his hands contain so much: passion and power and pride and personality.  But his hand, however marginally, is held in hers.

She hadn’t thought of him like this: hadn’t seen the street fighter that he hides.  Physical strength, yes, but not that brutal killer’s instinct that had raged out through this brutalised hand.  She’d known that he was strong since he had carried her out of her wrecked, flaming apartment, but had always thought him gentle, in action if not always in words.

She’d always thought his hands would be soft on her, not hard and forceful.  And yet, even in those brief, desperate moments to fool the guard, she had felt the strength and the power and the force; and for the first time, now, she is certain that he’s strong enough.

These hands could catch her if she fell.

She had doubted that, before: seen the ability to protect, defensively, but not the ability to attack.  It had been why she had wished he would stay in the car, or behind her, a defender not an attacker: she had felt the need to keep him safe.  Now, it seems that he has felt that same need, and expressed it through hard hands and forceful grip and brutal punches and the pull of the trigger.

Looking at his hands, in the bullpen or in the car, she would never have thought of this: thick bandages and bruising and blood; hard fingertips where she is holding him.  She tightens her fingers as much as possible: her thinking lasting only seconds.  He’s not responding, hasn’t responded since she stepped out to talk to Josh, hand motionless and lax, no answering touch.

“Castle?  C’mon.  Let’s get out of here.  No reason to stay.”  She tugs, only succeeding in disconnecting their hands; has to come back to him, pick up his bandaged hand again, more deliberately.  No question that she’s doing this for a purpose.

He’s looking at their hands: looking down, avoiding catching her eyes, nor reacting to her fingers twined into his, emerging from their cocooned bandages.  She doesn’t tug again, still in view of too many interested eyes, but his hand is cold and still under her curving fingers.

His hands are yet unmoving in the car; hers on the wheel in perfect ten-to-two alignment.  He’s still quiet, withdrawn: and _this_ is not what she expected, is not what she wanted – what she wants.  Maybe it’s the adrenaline crash, but she has finally seen the man whom she should have seen all along, and upon that realisation left her part-time lover to try for this man, with hands which are strong enough to catch her as she falls.  But he is silent and still beside her, as she is motionless, to avoid wincing.  Her back is bruised, where she was thrown around: no doubt the blue and purple paint-splash bruises are all over the canvas of her abused body.  But she won’t show the pain.  The medics gave her painkillers, and that will have to do.

She parks below her apartment, rousing Castle from his chill reverie.

“Coffee, Castle?”  She hopes to break this odd, uncomfortable silence.

“I thought you were dropping me off.”  He almost sounds… irritated.

“It’s” – this is not quite the time, nor yet the place, in her car.  In a moment, in her apartment – “been a tough day.  Come up for coffee.  You don’t want to be alone” – she stops, realising her own stupidity in making that statement: he wouldn’t be alone.  He has his family.  It’s she who would be alone.  Of course, she is well used to that – “It’s better to be with someone who understands the situation.”

“Okay,” he says, but it sounds almost begrudged, and his hands don’t move towards her when she opens the car door for him: she needn’t do so, he has one good hand, but she wants to spare him such pain as she can.

It’s only when she sets the mug in front of him that she realises that he can’t use his right hand to lift it, and his left is tremulous.  It’s one thing too many, on top of her own adrenaline crash and the change from the hard hands holding her, the firm lips kissing her, to this silent, cool, unresponsive form, one thing too many: another mistake in a litany of mistakes that she, unknowingly, must have made, some time between the ambulance and now.

“I’m sorry,” she says, hopelessly, and gestures at the full mug, his hands.  “I didn’t think…”  She slumps on to the couch next to him, her own mug wrapped in her hands, unheeding of the burn.  “I just thought you could use the coffee and a chance…”  A chance to pick up where he had left off, hours earlier.  Well, that’s not going to happen.  “…to decompress before you went home.”

“Yeah.”  There’s another chill pause.  Beckett shuffles a little further away, and drops her head to let her hair conceal her face.  The coffee doesn’t help.  His next words are forced out, as if he can’t keep them behind his teeth any more.  “I’d have thought you’d be – decompressing.”  The last word is freighted with a kind of weary, half-contemptuous resignation.

“I thought I was,” Beckett mutters, “but seems like offering you coffee was a mistake.”  And then louder, “I’ve been in this situation before.  I know what to expect.”

“What did you say?”

“I know what to expect.”

“No.  Before that.”

“I’ve been here before.”

“Before that.  You said something before that.”

“ ‘S not important.”

“You only say that when it was important but you don’t want to repeat it where I can hear.  What did you say?”

“Nothing.  It’s fine.” 

Castle’s coffee cup clinks down, a note of finality that puts a period to this misbegotten plan to move matters along; a plan grounded in the earlier feel of his hands and lips.  He had acted with her, as if they were both drunk.  He had been an excellent actor, to fool her so.  She had thought it had been real.  It had felt real: something larger than both of them; something that they’ve always known and denied was there.  But he had been acting: his mother’s talent turned to his own purpose. 

Now he’s drunk his coffee, and he’ll go.  She’ll be alone with her pain: but pain heals, as his hand will heal.  In a week nothing will show, for either of them.

“What did you say, Beckett?”  Oh well.  What can it hurt, more than she does already?  She’s already checked out of this conversation, and this evening, planning a hot bath, and two Advil.

“I said that I thought I was decompressing, here.  Seems not.  I’ll have a bath and I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”

Another gap appears in this non-conversation.  Beckett hides her face in her coffee and her hair and shuffles another few inches away from Castle.

“So you thought I needed company to decompress, but somehow you don’t?”

“I’ve done this before.  You haven’t.”  She shrugs, dismissively.  “I thought it might help, before you went back home to your family.”

“But you could be in company.”  There’s a noticeable bite on the final word.

This time the gap is caused by Beckett’s failure to reply.

“Couldn’t you?”

“Don’t you count as company?”

“You know what – who – I mean.  Stop prevaricating, Beckett.  Why aren’t you with your boyfriend?”

 


	2. Hold my heart

She stands, collects both coffee mugs, and starts for the kitchenette.

“Because I broke it off with him two hours ago.  And now I’d rather have my own company, thanks.”  Despite her dishwasher, she starts running water into the sink, swishing her hands in it to dissolve the washing up liquid.

“You broke up?”

“Yes, Castle, that’s what I said.” 

She starts to wash up, her back firmly to the open space of her apartment.  Turning her back on the situation, the evening, the failure of her hope: all slipping through her empty hands as the soapy water does.  At least her hands and heart are clean of guilt.  She should never have started with Josh, or he should never have started with her, or both, but now they’re done.  No need for guilt about her behaviour or emotions.

The mugs are set forlornly on the draining board, the cooling water gurgling down the sink, unwarrantedly cheerily.   She turns around, hoping, though the door hasn’t opened or shut, that Castle will have left.  Solitude seems the most attractive of the available options, but, as with every other one of her desires today, it is unlikely to come to pass.

Turning around, her apartment is not empty, nor is the space behind her.  Castle is already reaching towards her: no room to step away, avoid, evade, elude.  Escape.

“You broke up.” 

She shrugs.  “Happens.” 

His hand – this hand not bandaged, fingers flexible – slips on to her shoulder, light on her shirt.  The route past his bandaged, damaged right hand is clear; the movement simple, easy.

He stops her – _stops_ her – by putting his other arm in her way, and the light touch on her shoulder changes to that forceful, potent grip from earlier.   The mood in the apartment changes, from chill unhappiness to a darker, hotter atmosphere, Castle’s aura shifting into something new, something dangerous: something more akin to four hours ago.

“You broke up.”

“Are you auditioning for a chorus line?  I know that.  You don’t need to keep reminding me.”

“I’m just making sure I heard you right.”

“You heard right,” she snaps.

This time, there is no instant of hesitation, only, simply, decision; as his mouth comes down on hers for the second time today, and there is no denying his strength now.  There had been no denial earlier, either:  no chance and no desire to deny.

Not his hands, but his body, pushing her back against the counter, imprisoning her without hands, only an arm and one hand in her hair, mouth still devouring.  One hand only, knotted at her nape, hard fingers pressing and holding.  No escape is possible, and none is desired or required.  The soft bulk of bandages and gauze curves around her back, the arm around her waist; his body pressing hard and heavy into the waiting, welcoming space, heat where she needs it and strength to catch her as she fell.

Earlier, she finally let herself fall for him.  Now, he’s caught her: strong enough to catch her, hands strong enough to hold her.

His mouth is still covering hers, not, now, devouring, but investigating, tracing, softer, persuasive yet still forceful.  She succumbs to the persuasion and the force, open and receptive and responsive in her turn; her own hands have come up to clasp his shoulders, frame his face and hold him to her; never let him go.  Heat blooms in her body and pools between her legs where he’s large against her, pressure where she wants and needs him: closer than he was before and no rescue needed that will stop them.

Still sharing only kisses, these kisses passionate and desperate to make up for all the time she’s wasted before now, now that she _knows_ how his mouth feels, how his body feels tight and close to hers and yet not close enough, how his lips feel moving from her mouth (and she whines a little for the loss) around on to her neck and her jawline, nibbling with leashed potency at her pulse points and around to below her ear.  Still sharing only kisses, with her head thrown back to give him freedom to take and plunder as he pleases, throat bare to him, and the soft bandaged bulk behind her back supporting as his other hand, a little clumsy as if it’s not the one he’d usually use for this, tracing over her neck, down her shoulder and the cut of her collarbone, over the collar of her polo neck and starting to pull at it, and now it’s about to be more than kisses; the air is hot and thin around her, too little oxygen to let her breathe freely.  Her breath comes in short quick gasps, her hands tightening on his frame to hold her up.

Her polo neck is rucked up and out the way, and if his hands are not available his mouth is certainly not a mere substitute.  She arches to him, his hands strong at her back, as his mobile lips tease and play, slipping silk and lace across sensitive skin, the flesh swelling slightly in aroused response.  Her nipples harden, and though she’s held back slightly because it feels so good and she doesn’t want him to stop, she detaches a hand from where it’s been clinging to his neck and starts to unbutton his shirt in return, wanting the chance to trace his muscles and taste his strength, to show him that she’s all in, all here, all his.

Under his shirt is all the muscle she could want, tougher than she’d ever expected before today: and she wonders vaguely when he works out, how much he lifts or bench presses.  Maybe he spars: those punches hadn’t looked amateur.  Her fingers trace downwards, unbuttoning further as she goes, a light scrape of fingernails that makes him gasp, tighten his grip on her – through arms, not hands, only one hand can hold her.

His mouth takes hers again, rising from teasing and playing with her breasts to exploring her mouth and eliciting small noises which he swallows, pressing closer and closer until her hands are trapped between them and all she can do is flicker over flat nipples and curved pectorals and kiss him back as if he’s the only one. 

He _is_ the only one.

She kisses him with frantic need, all hints of chill or discomfort or the pain from her bruising smothered in her hot desire, rips his shirt apart and pulls it slightly off his shoulders, takes and plunders and ravages his mouth on her own account and leaves him nearly reeling.

It only lasts an instant, before he fights back, shoving her sweater one-handed from her form and leaving it tangled round her elbows, pushing back into her mouth and, one-handed or not, bending her backwards over the counter and leaning over her till her leg rises round him to keep her balance, not allowing her to have it her own way, as he hadn’t let her draw her gun, hours before.  He returns to attend further to her breasts, dampening the silk as he licks across her nipples and then bites deliberately over each, making her moan and press her core against him, rolling to find friction, unable to reach down and release either of them.

“Mine,” she gasps out.  “Bedroom.”

“No.  Right here.  Right now.  No more waiting.  Just you.  Just me.  Just us.” 

He moves a little, that previously clumsy left hand slipping down to cup her through her dress pants, to spring the button: certain and sure and of _course_ he would be ambidextrous, although she still thinks his other hand is the one he uses most; the one that would catch her first; the earlier clumsiness simply the awkwardness of being on the opposite side of the angles of her sweater coming over her head.  There is no clumsiness now: just the knowledge of his useless, wrapped, right hand behind her, still supporting her.  His hand slides into her pants, and the shock of it halts her move to free him; at last to take his weight in her hands and then into her body; his hand forcing her pants away, leaving only thin fabric and heat and the searing pressure against her, blazing through her.

Touch had never been like this before: hands never so sure or searching, demanding and desperate; her response never so rapid, so inflamed.  She reaches again for him, one hand holding him, never to let go; one hand flicking open buttons, lowering the zip, mirroring his own movements and stoking him higher, hard and ready in her fingers as she strokes; her panties are gone and she kicks the useless fabric away from her, opens for him and then there are no hands, only bodies and so close, too close ever to distinguish between them.  Mouths and bodies joined, everything so near; he in her arms, under her hands and all his strength against her; all her strength given up to him and she falls, spiralling, to be caught by him and held safe; he falls, crashing, caught by her and held close.

Stumbling, half-blind with passion and need, not satisfied in any way, they stagger to the bedroom, trailing clothes as the fabrics fall behind them, shoes broadcast over the wooden floor, not letting go of each other, both lost and yet found again.  They fall on to the bed together, stripping the last barriers of clothing, awkward to bring his shirt over the wrappings but unwilling to concede to the hampering crepe.   Skin to skin, face to face, lips and breath and bodies joined again, falling together, hand in hand.

Soon, there is silence, soft breathing and then, as afterglow diminishes, small noises of pain on movement as the cuts, bruises and damage of earlier bloom again, not healed as their hearts are healed.  She looks at him, the bandages dull against the sheen of his sweated skin, the slick of her on him; sees the damage to her own cream skin reflected in the pain in his eyes, the opening of his lips on a word of surprise.

“Beckett… Kate?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll heal.”

“But…”

“Worth it, Castle.  You’re here.” 

Her hand twines into his, small proof, fingers delicately petting over the knuckles and veins of the naked skin of his left hand.  It’s the wrong side for her, but she needs the contact, needs him to know he should stay, needs to touch him, not wrapping and bandages and crepe and reminders of pain.  There has been enough pain, tonight.   His fingers curl softly around hers: the way she’d once expected would be the only way they could.  Tonight, his hand was firm on her, forceful, strong.  Now there can be softness, and care; following power and passion and potency.  Strong enough to catch her, soft enough to care.

“Mine,” she states softly, hard intent behind the words, and her grip tightens; she rolls up on to her right flank, heedless of the darkening purple on her side and back, leaning over him, and finds herself pulled down, bandages and wadded gauze no hindrance to catching her in.

“Mine,” he answers, contradiction, confirmation and consent at once as he keeps her close.  His arm lies over her, no chance of avoiding all the bruises, but the soreness is irrelevant when his body surrounds her and she can rest safe in his strength, as he can rest safe in hers.  Sleep washes over both of them.

Morning creeps in, slow and diffident; struggling through the windows.  Sometime, the comforter has risen over the exhausted forms, concealing hurts and healing alike.  Sometime, Beckett has spread her own arm over Castle’s chest: holding him.  She wakes only when she tries to move a little, finding no flex in the arm holding her and only discomfort in her back.  Blue eyes regard her gravely.

“Don’t go.”

“Not going anywhere.”  Enough has been said.  A hand ghosts over her back, lightly enough not to hurt.  “I need to wash, though.”  Slight loosening attends that statement, and she tries again to move, the restriction gone.  The pain is still apparent, but it is possible to ignore it, and ignore the discolorations speckling her flesh.  Some several seconds later, sitting on the edge of the bed, gooseflesh rising in the chill January morning, she determines on a bath, and rises to draw it, wincing with each motion but sure that heat and salts will mend her ills. 

Sinking down into the scalding heat, she sighs, which exhalation brings Castle, broad in the narrow space of her bathroom, gentle as he kneels beside the tub and delicately washes her, his fingers lighter than she could manage; could she but manage to reach in any case.  Delicacy turns to controlled power as he massages out the knots of stress, avoiding all bruising, until she tips her head back and brings his mouth to hers and shows him without words how much this means, invites him in to soothe his hurt as well, though the space is cramped. 

He lifts her out, stands himself and simply holds her, desire now restrained in the aftermath of yesterday and the bodily hurts that they both bear: no endorphins now to mask them.  Still, they stand together, close as the lovers they now must be, will be, and are; until the chill air shivers them and they dry each other, dress as swiftly as pain and bandages allow.

Beckett makes coffee, brings it to where Castle sits, looking down at his still bandaged hand, reaches to him and takes his hands in hers again.

“I never knew,” she says softly, “how strong you were.”  She strokes over his hand, and looks up into his eyes. 

“Strong enough for you?”

“Yes.  I… I want you to catch me when I fall.”

“I’ll catch you when you fall, Beckett, if you’ll catch me in return.”

“Okay.”  Quiet peace surrounds them, curled together on her couch.  “Castle?”

“Mmmm?”

“You already caught me, when I fell for you.”


End file.
